


As All Valentine's Days

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos Fights a Librarian, Carlos Records Cecil's Broadcasts, Carlos Thinks Too Much, Carlos is a Dork, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Has Tentacles, Cecil Loves Cat Videos, Cecil is Mostly Human, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gift Giving, M/M, Tattooed Cecil, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day in Night Vale, these idiots are so cute that it's physically painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Day is a <em>thing</em> in Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As All Valentine's Days

Carlos loiters near the back of the Ralph’s, chewing his lip as he contemplates roses.

Valentine’s Day is a _thing_ in Night Vale, a thing that no one wants to explain, but that Cecil mentions with increasing gravity as the midpoint of February draws near. People _die_ on Valentine’s Day; people died last year. It is a holiday solely responsible for the annual spike in Night Vale mortalities. Carlos mulls over Cecil’s last Valentine’s broadcast, which whispers through his earbuds on repeat as he tries to glean details from the vague reports. The problem with Night Vale is that its version of _normal_ is so outrageously localized that no one ever thinks to elaborate, leaving outsiders to muddle through on their own.

And then, on top of all the doom and destruction, Carlos wanders into the Ralph’s only to discover an entire aisle devoted to pink heart-shaped cards and confetti. 

There is a certain twist to the usual Hallmark paraphernalia—the chocolates purr and growl in their boxes, and all of the hearts are anatomical replicas—but its presence is frankly baffling to Carlos. He is less surprised to note that the roses appear to be allergic to themselves than he is to discover this cache in the first place. Questions immediately fizz through his brain, released like depressurized carbon dioxide. _Do people actually celebrate this death trap? Is the romantic element part or in spite of the carnage?_ And then, like a handful of ice down his collar, _Am I supposed to get something for Cecil?_

Carlos frowns and eyeballs the roses, which rustle collectively and sneeze at the chocolates. A fine layer of pollen settles over his shoes. The Voice in his ears gives way to the weather.

If Carlos buys one of these absurdly pink little gifts for Cecil, there are two likely ways events will unfold. Option One: Cecil will delightedly accept despite Carlos’ faux-pas of gift-giving on Valentine’s Day, which Carlos will only discover later when Cecil recounts the story on the air. Option Two is even more embarrassing: Cecil will delightedly accept despite Carlos’ faux-pas of buying a gift from _the Ralph’s,_ and will downplay the superiority of whatever he’s bought for Carlos in return. Probably a life-sized dark chocolate sculpture, or a set of diamond beakers, or a genuine Faberge egg. Carlos shudders, his face heating up at the thought, and shakes his head to banish the scenario.

If Carlos, however, attempts to lay low by _not_ buying something romantic for Cecil, he may be confronted with Option Three, in which Cecil says nothing of his own disappointment as he presents Carlos with a small, sweet, thoughtful present and receives nothing but Carlos’ apology in return. Even worse, he won’t complain to his listeners; he will simply mention it without a trace of accusation, as though anyone’s stupid scientist boyfriend might do the same. Cecil’s Voice will pitch higher as he summarizes the event, which will alert even casual listeners to his distress; this, in turn, will tear out Carlos’ heart and stomp it to mush on the lab’s linoleum. Metaphorically, if he’s lucky; literally if he’s not. 

Carlos shakes that thought away, as well.

If he could _ask_ someone, it wouldn’t be an issue; he’s sure anyone in town could clear up his confusion. The problem is that Cecil knows everything, and the second Carlos opens his mouth, he’ll have basically told Cecil directly what he’s up to. He’s not being paranoid; his boyfriend possesses a radio omniscience that Carlos has yet to completely define. Frustrated, he runs his hand through his hair, which garners a wobble from Cecil’s pre-recorded Voice. 

_Great,_ Carlos thinks. Something else for the Cecil-version of his to-do list.

Or, well. The _professional_ Cecil-version of Carlos’ to-do list.

To his left, the chocolates titter like they know what he’s thinking, which—because, _Night Vale_ —is entirely possible. Carlos’ skin heats up in a full-body blush. “Don’t you dare say a word,” Carlos mutters, retreating. As soon as he’s out of their eyeshot, he flees.

-

“Valentine’s Day,” Carlos grumbles, hands deep in his pockets, labcoat fluttering in his wake. “Valentine’s Day,” he echoes himself, kicking a stone across the pavement.

-

There is a moment when Carlos almost just asks; Cecil looks so honest and exposed like this, one hand bracing, the other tangled in Carlos’ hair. Carlos ponders, knows he could lean up just slightly, could catch Cecil’s ear in a rough little whisper as he nuzzles the ink-dark expanse of his neck. _I know our normals are different,_ he’d say, in something attempting caramel tones, _but is there anything you’d like for Valentine’s this year?_

Cecil breathes out a sound too soft for the radio, something resembling Carlos’ name. Carlos smoothes his hands down Cecil’s sides, grasps his hips where the tattoos tremble. The midnight sunset paints them fire-gold, rose-pink, and a peculiar shade of green that resists all description. 

“Cecil,” murmurs Carlos, then falters beneath the sweet, open gaze. 

“Yes, lovely Carlos?” Cecil says through his grin, in a Voice pitched deliberately low and mischievous. It’s that damn subversive-radio-host Voice, the one that sends Carlos’ heart rate into frenzy and leaves him reeling as though with minor head trauma.

“Oh,” says Carlos, “just was wondering...if…” His boyfriend’s smile evokes cat-and-canary. “I, uh,” he tries again, then, to hell with it, _“Cecil.”_

There’s a sound near the mail-slot of coughing, throat-clearing. The secret police officer shuffles further from the door. If Carlos’ brain weren’t in merciful short-circuit, he’d likely care more than he currently does.

This isn’t the time for conversation, anyway. He’ll just ask Cecil later. There’s plenty of time.

-

A _week._ He has _one week._

“Valentine’s Day!” he shouts at the sand wastes, and receives a volley of snails for his troubles.

-

“This is ridiculous,” Carlos grumbles as he adjusts the focus and glares through the microscope. Sensing his mood, the sample quivers on the slide, cooing little soothing sounds. Leaning back, Carlos nudges his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “Sorry,” he says, “it’s not you. It’s me.”

The sample gives a whirring, clicking response, as though it understands his distress. Maybe it does. Carlos makes a note. 

“It’s just,” he continues, glancing around, his glasses back in their usual position. “It’s just this town, you know what I mean? I’m not… It’s hard for outsiders to understand. And Cecil, I don’t want to mess up with Cecil. I _really_ like him. You understand?”

The sample changes shape on the slide, from blob to heart-shape to spiral, like a nautilus. Carlos makes another note. 

“Anyway, sorry. Thanks for listening. I know that wasn’t professional, I apologize.”

The sample whirrs again and turns mauve, the spiral curling into itself. “It’s okay,” it purrs in broken Spanish. “We all get frazzled. Valentine’s Day.”

Carlos blinks and grabs for his well-worn iPhone, hoping to hell that it was recording. It wasn’t, of course, but his lab assistant was. Carlos jumps, still unaccustomed to her intermittent transparency and completely taken aback by her presence. “Rosario!” he yelps, “I was just—”

“I heard.” She smiles very faintly behind her own iPhone, apparently absorbed in tapping the screen. Her limbs are translucent, more so at the extremities, but her head and torso are holding opacity. “Try the library,” she advises. “There’s a lot of material on Night Vale there, if you can find versions that aren’t in Sumerian.”

“Thanks,” Carlos mutters. “Your feet disappeared.”

“Damn!” says Rosario, looking down. “It’s cycling more frequently. I just want to show off my boots; what the hell.”

The sample squirms as she bolts for her station. “¡La biblioteca!” it shrills from the slide.

“I know,” Carlos soothes, clearing the countertop.

-

“Valentine’s Day,” Carlos curses, breathing deep and punching send. He nearly goes boneless with relief when the call goes straight to Cecil’s voicemail.

“Hey!” he says, a touch too cheerful. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey. Uh, just wanted to tell you I’ll be late tonight. I need to make a stop at the library. Just letting you know, so you don’t worry. So, you know, don’t worry! Ha ha. I’ll see you tonight. You’re amazing. Bye.”

-

“For frell’s sake!” Carlos arcs a large wrench blindly, leaping backward and landing on his ass. He scurries to the right just in time to prevent the abrupt union of his thigh with a set of librarian teeth, then flails the wrench again, connecting. The librarian howls and he twists to his feet, maneuvering through the shelves at full sprint. Something skitters along the top of a shelf, shadowy and smelling of almonds or cyanide.

 _Librarian,_ he thinks. She pounces; they roll.

“Valentine’s _Day!”_ Carlos grunts, brandishing the wrench to keep her at bay. The librarian feints and he almost falls for it, but a suspiciously Cecil-like voice in his head tugs him back with bare seconds to spare. The wrench catches her shoulder and she retreats slightly, circling. “I’m looking for the local history section. Localized traditions. Information on holidays.” 

The librarian growls like an angry cat—a normal, non-Night Valeian cat—and lunges for his throat, fangs gleaming, eyes black. “Nine-hundreds!” she snarls. “Dewey Decimal system!”

“I know _that!”_ parries Carlos, “But where are those? This place is a labyrinth!” 

“David Bowie,” she sneers. Brackish ribbons of saliva drip from her maw; her breath sizzles inches from Carlos’ face. “Nine-hundreds! Main stairs! Immediate left, uncultured swine!”

“Thank you!” Carlos swings and somehow connects with her head, dropping her like a sack of encyclopedias. He flees before the other librarians start to swarm, the scent of her blood calling sharp and ammoniated. 

From his pocket, his iPhone buzzes through denim, heralding his nineteenth missed call of the hour.

-

“Library?” asks Rosario, today two floating ears and a single forearm.

“Unhelpful,” sighs Carlos, “but I did find some useful material on moon cycles and the role of bloodstones in Night Vale rituals. Plus, a librarian tooth for Cecil.”

“Neat,” says Rosario.

“Nice earrings,” says Carlos.

-

“Hey, Cecil,” calls Carlos from the depths of the couch. “Can I use your wi-fi?”

Cecil glances up from his scattered mess of papers, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. “Of course, lovely Carlos. Just be sure not to look at your browser directly. Through corrective lenses should be fine; it’s kind of like a cockatrice.” 

“Oh. All right.” Carlos surreptitiously adjusts his glasses, then flicks a curious glance toward his boyfriend. “Which is your network?”

“Usher-II, like in Bradbury.” Cecil frowns and slices his thumb on a page, then uses the blood to loop his signature across it. “The password is unknowable, but the wireless shouldn’t mind. There’s no reason it would; it knows you by now.”

“Oh,” says Carlos again, “all right.” He clicks and waits for his laptop to connect, watching the password box fill itself in with a rapidfire series of runes-to-dots. The computer mulls it over for a second, then chirps to confirm a successful connection. Carlos double-checks; his sound is on mute. The network giggles. “Thanks, Cecil,” he says. 

“Of course, lovely Carlos. Endearing, clever Carlos.” 

Carlos retaliates. “Charming, brilliant Cecil.”

Cecil blushes across his visible tattoos. Carlos chuckles and settles back into the sofa. 

His inbox is rather sparse today. The sheriff’s secret police are generally efficient when it comes to sifting emails through the censorship web, but he supposes they’re still understaffed after the incident at Subway last week. Carlos isn’t terribly concerned; he’s not expecting anything from his long-distance colleagues, and his family usually prefers to call. Determined to let Cecil finish his paperwork, Carlos clicks through what little email he has. It’s mainly notifications and mailing lists; on a whim, he follows one to its website of origin. 

Naturally, it’s running a Valentine’s Day sale.

Carlos is on the verge of abandoning ship and retreating to Netflix when something catches his eye. Cautiously, he clicks the picture; it seems a little too good to be true, and Night Vale has made him wary of convenience. Still, it seems like a decent compromise—it’s neither outrageously expensive nor from the Ralph’s—and it’s adorable in a way that Cecil will appreciate regardless of his opinion on the holiday itself. 

_Sure,_ Carlos thinks, _we’ll try this. It might work._

It is a desperate—desperately obsessed, perhaps—man who clicks the shopping cart, who enters his password into PayPal with trembling fingers and high, fragile hopes.

-

“Carlos!” yelps Cecil, all reaching hands and a snarl of tentacles. “Get in here, are you _crazy?_ It’s _Valentine’s Day.”_

“Yes, I…noticed,” Carlos says, smearing the line of blood at his forehead. “I was careful, Cecil, I promise, just. You know.”

_“Carlos,”_ frets Cecil, clearly not listening as he circles, checking for additional damage. “I know you’re not _from_ here, but _honestly.”_

“I was careful,” Carlos insists. “I just knew you were stuck at the station, and I wanted to see you. To give you something.”

Cecil’s attention finally catches, and he circles back around, puzzled, hands fluttering. “Me? Why?”

_Aha,_ thinks Carlos. The uncertainty dissipates. He breathes a small laugh and shrugs out of his backpack. “This probably isn’t a thing in Night Vale, but Valentine’s Day is different where I’m from. So I figured, you know. I’d get you something, anyway.” Trembling now with sheer relief, Carlos lifts a white box from the bag’s interior, from which he produces a blue-wrapped bouquet.

“Flowers?” asks Cecil, his tentacles twitching.

“Kittens,” corrects Carlos, pressing the bundle into his arms.

Clearly thrown, Cecil paws through the layers of tissue paper, blinking down at nine sets of gleaming plastic eyes—plus one extra, set in the middle of the topmost kitten’s plush forehead. “Oh, Carlos,” he murmurs, petting a pointed, pink-stitched ear. “They’re adorable! This one’s like a miniature Khoshekh, if he weren’t, you know, hovering in a fixed location in a radio station bathroom.”

“I special-ordered that one,” Carlos admits. “I hoped you’d like it.”

“Sweet, thoughtful Carlos, I absolutely love it. I’ve never even _heard_ of a kitten bouquet.”

Carlos chuckles. “Me neither. But I saw it, and it seemed kind of perfect. It reminded me of your kitten videos on YouTube.”

“They just love those boxes.”

“And I love you, you know?”

Cecil’s head snaps up and Carlos fidgets, very aware of the scorched edges of his labcoat and the sticky trickle of blood from his forehead. It’s a far cry overall from past experiences of Valentine’s Day: the radio station corridor smells of kelp and gunpowder, Carlos’ shoulder still aches from his trip to the library, and Cecil’s tentacles have unfurled around them, undulating as though with an invisible current. Still, beneath the Night Valeian quirks, there is something to be said for the way Cecil melts and launches himself into Carlos’ arms, squishing the bundle of kittens between them. 

“Oof,” breathes Carlos.

_“I love you,”_ says Cecil.

There’s a sound from somewhere behind a closed door, suspiciously akin to spying, cooing interns. Cecil does not appear to notice, brushing kisses down Carlos’ neck; Carlos immediately reshuffles his priorities. Interns can wait. Cecil cannot.

“But I didn’t get you anything,” Cecil worries as Carlos maneuvers them into Cecil’s studio, closing and locking the door with a click. 

“Sure you did,” Carlos says. Cecil’s glasses are askew. Cecil’s tie is loose and silky between his fingers. “The lights above the Arby’s. My one-year trophy. And my first day here, when you fell in love instantly.”

Something softens rather strangely in Cecil’s eyes. For a moment, the Voice of Night Vale is silent. “Carlos the Scientist,” he finally says, quiet, playful, still somewhat surprised. “You hopeless romantic.”

“This from you,” Carlos laughs.

Cecil grins and regains some element of mischief, though the look in his eyes remains, liquid-dark. “This from me,” he confirms. “Now come here and kiss me.”

Carlos tilts his head to oblige. For all he’s yet to learn about Night Vale, he is, at least, very confident in this.

**Author's Note:**

> So I go outside to check the mail, right? And there's a little flier from ThinkGeek in there. So I glance it over and what do I find? This: http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/1539/
> 
> So, then. Adorable, isn't it.
> 
> A quick, funny little story, I think. Carlos buys Cecil a bouquet of kittens. Open and shut. A thousand words, tops.
> 
> I don't know what happened. I was _in the middle of writing something totally different._
> 
> ...Anyway. I'm on tumblr at octoberspirit.tumblr.com if you'd like to flail over these incredible dorks with me.


End file.
